And now he punishes the heart of steel And her own iron rod he makes oppression feel. To feel the hope now raised and now deprest, The hateful picture forces on my sight! In vain I seek the charms of youthful grace, When each strong passion spurn'd control, When anguish'd Care of sullen brow The fixed eye she bade thee roll On scenes which well might melt thy soul— Thy native cot, where Peace ere long And all her silent agony of woe. "And from thy fate shall such distress ensue? Told the keen insult of the unfeeling heart. vein. O Spirit blest! Whether the Eternal's throne around, Like thee, when rage the waves of woe, To leave behind contempt and want and state * It seems that the Author considered the sentiment in these last three lines "so improper," that he soon altered them to those that now stand in the text. (See vol. i. pp. 60-61.) The first foot-note on p. 61 should be deleted. b TO THE EVENING STAR.* MEEK attendant of Sol's setting blaze, I hail, sweet star, thy chaste effulgent glow; On thee full oft with fixed eye I gaze Till I, methinks, all spirit seem to grow. O first and fairest of the starry choir, O loveliest 'mid the daughters of the night, Must not the maid I love like thee inspire Pure joy and calm Delight? Must she not be, as is thy placid sphere Serenely brilliant? Whilst to gaze a while Be all my wish 'mid Fancy's high career E'en till she quit this scene of earthly toil; Then Hope perchance might fondly sigh to join Her spirit in thy kindred orb, O star benign! ANNA AND HARLAND.† WITHIN these wilds was Anna wont to rove While Harland told his love in many a sigh, But stern on Harland rolled her brother's eye, They fought, they fell-her brother and her love! * Now first printed from the late Sir J. T. Coleridge's MS. book. + Now first printed from the late Sir J. T. Coleridge's MS. note-book. To Death's dark house did grief-worn Anna haste, Yet here her pensive ghost delights to stay; Oft pouring on the winds the broken lay— And hark, I hear her 'twas the passing blast. I love to sit upon her tomb's dark grass, Then Memory backward rolls Time's shadowy tide; The tales of other days before me glide: With eager thought I seize them as they pass; For fair, though faint, the forms of Memory gleam, Like Heaven's bright beauteous bow reflected in the stream.* TRANSLATION OF WRANGHAM'S Hendecasyllabi ad Bruntonam e Granta Exituram.† MAID of unboastful charms! whom white-robed Truth Right onward guiding through the maze of youth, *The last two lines were transferred to another poem printed in The Watchman. (See Vol. i. pp. 66-67.) † Printed in a small volume of "Poems by Francis Wrangham, M.A., Member of Trinity College, Cambridge, Lond. 1795, pp. 79-83, where the original Hendecasyllables will be found. This translation was sent to Miss Brunton, sister of the Lady (Mrs. Merry) who was the subject of the original verses, with the lines that follow it in the text. The meek-eyed Pity, eloquently fair, For never yet did mortal voice impart The bridal loves that wept in Juliet's breast. O soon to seek the city's busier scene, |